‘Cestus,’ he said huskily, ‘for my sake and my wife’s, and it may be for hers for all that I can tell, I wish occasion had never been to have brought you back again. We must suffer; but that is nothing if it be for her good. I have of late thought over what you have said. In one way and another it seems fated that she must leave us. I have also thought that our home here would be very dark without her, or even the consolation of knowing that she was within easy reach. I had half resolved, therefore, to follow to the city. She may be lost to us, it is true; but still they could not rob us altogether of the sight of her. That—that, at least, would be a comfort. This will decide me then. As soon as I return from Capreae we will go, and, at least, make a trial of a new home—though it is a hard task to transplant old trees.’
‘As soon as you return from Capreae!’ echoed Cestus, his incipient satisfaction giving way in a breath to disgust. ‘You will still persist in that madness. It must never be! You have no need of Caesar—what benefit to you is a man who lives like a hermit on a rock? The rich nobles in Rome will be a thousand times the service to you—you shall not go!’
‘I will!’ cried Masthlion, stung into anger and despair by the fierce tone of his kinsman; ‘I will do my duty to the labour of my life—its fame shall be mine and shall cling to me though everything fall away.’
‘Life included,’ sneered Cestus.
‘Let it, if it be so fated. It seems less bright than it did.’
CHAPTER XV.
When they were called in to supper the two women were awaiting them, bright-eyed and radiant, at a modest, but well-filled table. Their new-found cheerfulness, however, was doomed to a brief existence. Cestus remained silent and gloomy; and Masthlion, equally taciturn, despatched his meal rapidly, as though it were a task to be well rid of. Their dampened spirits were still more depressed, when the potter, immediately on swallowing the last mouthful, announced, in a blunt, matter-of-fact way, his intended visit to Capreae. With a certain amount of dismay they at once expressed their disapprobation of the undertaking. It oppressed them with a sense of dread—it was of too great a magnitude. The very name of Caesar filled them with awe. They used their best efforts to dissuade the potter, assisted by the interjectory remarks and sarcasms of Cestus; but they plainly saw that their efforts were doomed to be vain. Masthlion bade them put away their fears, and, with something of his natural manner, clapped his wife gently on the shoulder as he went back to his workshop. Without being reassured, the women went silently about their work of removing the supper things, their hearts as heavy as before they had been cheerful.
‘Have you put this into his head?’ demanded Tibia suddenly of her brother. Her glance was suspicious and her tone unusually sharp.